


Corroborating Lies

by Macx



Series: Denuo [81]
Category: CSI: NY, House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bomb goes off in a house in New York, severely injuring a lawyer by the name of John Pyre. Chase immediately leaves for New York while Wilson calls one Mac Taylor, asking for his help, not knowing that the CSI team is already on the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corroborating Lies

had been a stupid accident. Really stupid. Incomprehensibly stupid. It was the worst way of breaking a bone and it had happened to him.

At work, of all places.

Because he had slipped on the coloring books one of his patients had left lying on the floor.

Dr. James Wilson almost growled to himself as he walked into the kitchen, intent on feeding his hungry stomach some sandwiches. His left hand was in a cast since he had a hairline fracture in his wrist bone and the whole joint was now immobilized.

Really stupid. He had walked into the children's cancer care unit, intent on talking to some of his little patients, when his right foot had suddenly slipped after stepping on the coloring books. It had been almost artistic how he had landed on the floor, and he would have laughed, if it hadn't been for the pain in his hand that had told him this wasn't funny at all. An hour and an x-ray later he knew he had broken a bone.

Fantastic.

Really not what he needed.

Surveying the contents of the fridge, Wilson took out some ingredients for his sandwich, then searched for the bread.

Showering had been a menace to his health already and he had nearly dissolved the cast, even though he had wrapped a small trash bag around the offensive addition to his arm. House had just smirked and made a few remarks, but Wilson had been too angry about it all to even have a witty comeback. Now his lover sat outside, in the living room, and he was here, trying to prove – what exactly? That he didn't need help?

Damn right! He didn't.

Wilson glared at the slices of toast, trying to intimidate them into obedience. He could barely wriggle the tips of his fingers and buttering bread was impossible. Still he tried it, and failed. Miserably.

"Got to hell!" he snarled and threw the whole mess into the sink.

He grabbed a bag of cookies and stormed back into the living room. He was on leave for the next two days, then he would talk Cuddy into at least letting him in on consults.

House glanced at him and frowned at the bag. Wilson glared back, daring him to comment. All he got was a raised eyebrow. He glared more, then fumbled the cookie bag open and ate one. Wilson switched on the TV and zapped through the program, settling on a comedy show. At least the humor was good, though dark.

When a plate appeared in front of him throughout the commercials, he nearly jumped.

"What?" he stuttered.

"Dinner," House simply said.

It was a sandwich. Ham and cheese, lettuce and tomatoes, some of his favorite sauce, jalapenos, hold the olives. Wilson took it, looking surprised, and House settled down next to him, feet up on the table once more.

He hadn't seen him leave the recliner. He hadn't heard him puttering around the kitchen. Damn, he was in a bad mood.

"Eat before it starts to mold."

It was a messy affair since he couldn't grab the sandwich with both hands, but it was manageable.

"Thanks," Wilson said softly after the first half, feeling so much better with a sandwich in his stomach than the sweet cookie.

"Don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Invalid bonus."

Wilson raised his brows. "What? You think I'll serve you now, too?"

House smirked. "You already do. In so many ways."

"You wish," Wilson mumbled around his bite.

"The culinary side needs more work, but the sex is fantastic."

He rolled his eyes and House grinned evilly. He reached out and wiped some sauce off Wilson's chin, sucking it off his finger in a clearly erotic gesture.

"You have a one-track mind, House."

"Easy maintenance."

"When were you ever easy?" Wilson put enough disbelief in his voice to have House scowl.

His lover grabbed the remote and switched to sports. Wilson didn't fight him. He knew he'd lose, and with one bad arm it was a lost cause anyway. Instead he ate the rest of his sandwich and contented himself with sliding against the taller form, making himself comfortable.

When House started to play with his hair, run his fingers through the longish strands in an aimless caress, he felt himself relax even more. The empath in him seemed to purr in content, easily latching onto the balanced, calm emotions of his lover.

"You're easy, too," House murmured and kissed one temple.

Wilson closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. Yes, he was. And it was really, really nice.

* * *

Mac Taylor rolled over in his bed and found nothing but emptiness beside him where a warm body should have been. He blinked at the empty spot, frowned, then sighed softly as he heard the unmistakable sound of a shower. It turned off not much later and Taylor smiled as the slender form of his lover walked into the bedroom. Hair wet, skin still damp, a towel around his waist.

"Hey, you're up," Flack greeted him with a smile.

Taylor leaned back lazily, enjoying the sight of the lean form approaching the bed. Don leaned down and kissed him.

"Hard case?" he asked.

"Just a lot of lab work. We're wrapping it up for the DA. Should be cleared today."

Mac enjoyed the languid kiss. He had slid into bed last night, next to his sleeping lover, and Don hadn't so much as opened his eyes. Just muttered something.

"You in this morning?" Flack wanted to know.

"Yeah. What time is it?"

"Just past six."

"Early bird."

"Suspect interview at eight."

Taylor stole another kiss, then released him, hand gliding down the now almost dry skin, encountering a few drops. He rested it on Don's left hip, thumb brushing over the outer edges of the huge scar. It had been eight months now, but he would never forget. Not just because of the scar, but because of his near-loss.

"Go get dressed," the criminalist murmured. "Before I'll make you late."

Flack chuckled and rose. Taylor was very, very tempted to do something that would make him extremely late as the towel was removed and he looked at the naked backside. Damn if the younger man didn't turn him on. They had been there for each other for mutual relief for close to four years. It had taken Lessing and his bomb to show Mac Taylor what he could lose. Now they were taking their first steps in a relationship that went beyond mere fuck buddies. They were both new at it and the three months they were a couple now had proven to be both interesting and experimental – and not just in bed.

A few minutes later Flack was dressed, missing only his tie and jacket, and Mac was ready to leave bed.

"Voyeur," Don accused him with an amused smile.

"I take what I can get."

Flack gave him a last kiss. "See you later. Gotta hurry."

With his jacket in hand, he left Mac's place. Taylor knew that the first trip would be to the coffee shop at the corner for a large coffee and a sandwich to go. They might see each other later, but only if there was a case that had them working together. So far, there had been thankfully no bigger crimes.

But in New York, that only meant it would happen another time.

* * *

It was a rather normal late autumn morning in New York. People were busily moving through the streets, hailing cabs, hurrying to catch a train or a shared ride, or had already arrived at their work places. The weather had been kind lately and this promised to be another spectacular day. The temperatures would be high, but not stifling, and people were already looking forward to the weekend. Forecasts had been rather positive.

Coffee cup in hand, carrying a leather case, the man in the dark suit and tie walked into the small office building in Upper Manhattan, whistling to himself. It had only three floors, was rather old, and wedged between the more modern buildings like a tiny leftover piece of a forgotten era. The brass plaque outside told anyone who looked that this was a law firm. It made the early starter a lawyer.

No one had yet appeared to start work due to the rather early hour and it was probably for the best.

As the man turned the key in the security lock to enter the outer office hall, a loud bang disrupted the busy New York morning. Stone and glass exploded outward onto the street in a minor shower of debris.

The screams of the people rang into the ensuing quiet after the immediate explosion.

* * *

It was eight-fortyfive on the second when Detective Mac Taylor pulled up his car on the opposite side of the crime scene. He had been waved past the first police barrier after flashing his ID, had shown it to a young patrol officer who had approached him a few dozen yards later, and had then decided to get as close as possible.

Yellow crime scene tape and red and blue lights flashing on police cars and ambulances greeted him. The area had been widely taped off, there were uniformed officers doing crowd control, and he spied paramedics among the bustle, helping the injured. One ambulance was just pulling away, siren blaring, and people moved to make room for it.

The building right in the center of the taped-off area looked rather good for a place where a bomb had gone off, but the outside could be deceiving. There were busted windows and window sills, cracks in some areas, and Mac thought he could smell smoke from a recently put-out fire. From the primary reports someone had set off a small explosive device inside an office, severely injuring one man. Everyone else who had been on the street had fared better with lacerations, concussions and bruises.

Probably collateral damage, he mused.

"Hey Mac," Stella Bonasera greeted him.

She had arrived earlier and was already gloved up. She was wearing her blue department jacket, the one with the huge letters 'Forensics' on the back, and her hair was bound out of her face. She looked ready to tackle the bomb site. Next to Stella was another member of his team, Danny Messer, carrying a camera. Like Stella he had dressed up for the occasion and Mac pulled his own jacket out of the trunk.

"What a mess," Danny remarked.

"It always is," Mac replied. "Is the building cleared?"

Stella nodded. "Bomb squad went through it. It's all ours now."

"Then lets get going, people."

Off to the side Mac spied the familiar form of Don Flack, interviewing witnesses, and he briefly nodded at the younger man, then he followed Danny and Stella up the stone stairs and inside.

 

The bomb had made a mess, but not as badly as he had suspected. Everything looked a whole lot better than the last bomb site he had been working, but that had been C-4 going off. Military grade explosives. This looked far from it. There wasn't enough damage to think of something that potent.

Danny was snapping away with his camera, photographing every piece of debris, every corner, every inch of the place. Stella was already sifting through the debris.

"Looks like the bomb went off here," Danny called, nodding at a severely charred area where Mac suspected a reception desk had been.

There were larger wooden pieces, charred, and something that looked like a flatscreen monitor not far away. The carpet was a total loss, ripped to pieces and burned, and the fire department had added to the mess with the extinguishers.

More photos were taken.

Mac just looked around, scanning the room, taking it all in. The outer office was rectangular, two doors leading off to other rooms. He walked past Danny and peered into the room left of the reception area. Conference room, he decided. There was a large desk, six chairs, a sideboard, and the walls held some landscape prints. They looked like regular photographs blown up to several times their original size. Tasteful, too, he decided.

The other room was the main office. Like the conference room there was hardly any damage. The bomb's direction had been outward, toward the entrance. The office consisted of a massive desk with a flatscreen, cordless mouse and keyboard, a phone, and some files stacked to one side. Left of the window was a smaller table, with two chairs, and two more chairs were in front of the office desk. Like the conference room, there were landscape prints on the walls.

The sound of someone approaching had him turn and he nodded at Flack, who gave him a tight smile in return. Blue eyes flickered briefly over the site, then fixed on Mac.

"Bomb went off around seven this morning," the detective told him. "Luckily there weren't too many people on the street, but the guy who arrived first at the office took the brunt of it. His name is John Pyre. Lawyer. It's his office here."

Mac nodded.

"I talked to his secretary. She'll be down at the precinct later. She said if there hadn't been a pile-up she would have been here around the same time. They had planned on starting early. She's pretty shaken."

"Understandable."

"Bomb squad will send their report, but what they told me it's a small device and it had a rather directional blast."

Danny came over, holding the camera, nodding at the doorway. "Looks like it. Most charring and damage is directed toward the door."

"We need to find the bomb's pieces, including whatever triggered it," Mac told the blond. "Bag it, tag it, get it back to the lab. I'll have Lindsay and Hawkes standing by."

Messer nodded and went back to help Stella. Taylor looked at Flack.

"Anything else?"

The detective checked his notes. "No. I'll run our victim, see what kind of lawyer he is, and talk to the secretary. Maybe it was personal."

And with that he was gone, leaving almost in a hurry. Mac couldn't fault him for it. Eight months ago he had nearly died in a bomb explosion. Flack was entitled to skittishness.

Turning back to the room, he grabbed his crime scene kit and set to work.

* * *

Chase hadn't heard from John since the last weekend, when his lover had come down for a nice forty-eight hour break from New York, and when the two men had spent most of that time away from either work. There had been this nice little hideaway hotel, close to a lake, near a forest, and the owners weren't averse to same-sex couples. It hadn't been romantic enough to be sickly sweet, but Chase had enjoyed being romanced to a degree.

John had told him he was working on a case with illegal waste dumping, the reason why he had returned to New York Sunday evening. It was also a reason why they didn't talk much over the phone throughout the week.

On Thursday, Chase decided to call and dialed John's cell phone.

Someone picked up.

And it wasn't John Pyre.

* * *

Mac Taylor was processing the clothes from the victim, John Pyre. Everything was covered in dust and blood, torn or ripped. Pyre hadn't been in the immediate line of the blast, which had probably saved his life, and the bomb had been small enough not to bring the whole place down.

Stella was busy trying to find out what kind of explosive device it had been and from what she had found, it looked like a pipe bomb. Amateur bomb. Easy to build. Mac grimaced. Yes, there were even How To sites on the internet.

Hawkes had dug into the background of the target and come up with some interesting things. Pyre was an environmental lawyer, very good, with a list of successful trials in favor of nature reserves, protected areas and parks. He had left several disgruntled companies as losers in court and the list of enemies was accordingly. Lindsay was currently going through his apartment together with Hawkes and they were digging up whatever they could from his computer or mail.

A soft ringing sound disrupted his thoughts and he frowned. Danny, who was busy with pieces of the bomb, looked up from the microscope.

"Cell," he said.

"Not mine," Mac told him.

He rooted through the evidence bags and found it was Pyre's. The display said 'Robert' and Mac flipped open the mobile phone.

"Hello."

The voice at the other end was young and held an accent Taylor couldn't place. It was faint.

"Hello?" the younger man quizzed.

"Are you a friend of John Pyre?" he asked.

"Yes, I am. Who are you?"

"Detective Mac Taylor, NYPD crime lab."

"Crime lab?!"

"Mr…?"

"Chase. Dr. Robert Chase. What happened?" the caller demanded.

"Mr. Pyre was in an accident," Mac explained.

"What?! What happened? Is he alright?" Now the accent thickened and Mac thought it was Australian.

"Mr. Pyre is currently in the hospital."

There was a soft sound of distress from Chase and Mac couldn't fault him for it.

"Where?" he stuttered.

"Trinity. Are you from around here?"

"Princeton," was the faint reply. "I… I'll… oh my god…"

"Dr. Chase, calm down. I'll give you my number," Mac said calmly and did just that.

Chase was definitely starting to lose it, and he wondered how close the friendship of the two men was.

"Listen, I need information on Mr. Pyre. We couldn't locate any family…"

"He doesn't have any." Chase was valiantly battling his emotions. "What happened to him?"

Mac was silent for a moment, then answered evenly, "A bomb went off in his office."

The reaction was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone, then Chase gave a soft sound of denial.

"Dr Chase, listen to me," Taylor continued, "he's alive and in the best possible care."

Mac spent the next minutes quizzing the other man on what he could tell him, and Chase replied that he would be in New York as soon as he could.

When he had hung up, Danny shot him a quizzical look. "Friend?"

"Looks like it. He's coming here. He sounded distressed."

"Who wouldn't?"

Mac only nodded and placed the cell back onto the evidence desk. He was curious about Dr. Chase and looking forward to talking to the man. On a hunch he asked Lindsay to pull the man's files from Princeton-Plainsboro and see what she could find out about him.

* * *

Chase felt like he was living another life, like this hadn't been him receiving the news about John being in the hospital.

A bomb.

Someone had… a bomb in John's office…?

He was in a trance as he stuffed a few clothes into a travel bag, almost carelessly added toiletries, and checked his wallet that he had enough money, as well as his credit cards.

Have to call House, he thought.

But what to tell his boss? That he was endangering his job and career because his lover was in the hospital?

Chase felt a desperate laugh bubble up inside him. Career, right! As if his career was more important than John. He had fallen in love with the other man, he was in love, he loved, he didn't want to lose him… and he didn't care if House fired him over it.

His eyes fell on the phone and he reached for it, praying that the answering machine would pick up. It would be a lot easier to talk to a machine than House in person.

* * *

When the phone rang, House shot it a look of disdain. He was home, his clinic hours were almost up to speed, and Cuddy had no reason to terrorize him. Barely anyone else had his number, and Wilson was doing something or other in his office, probably writing fun letters to colleagues about something concerning the latest in cancer research or other. At least he would try to write, typing being difficult with one hand in a cast, but he was gamely laboring away.

After the second ring, the answering machine picked up.

"Uh, it's Chase," a heavily accented voice said.

House sat up, a frown on his features. He had known his junior long enough now to recognize the nuances in the Australian's voice. The heavier the accent, the more emotionally upset he was. Right now, this was upset squared.

"I need to go to New York. Something happened. You can probably catch it on the news. John was injured. I…" There was a more pronounced unevenness. "I don't know how bad it is. I'll call again."

And then the phone clicked.

House still stared.

"Was that Chase?"

He glanced at his lover who had come into the living room.

"Yes. Something spooked him."

Wilson rewound the answering machine and listened to the message, his expression changing briefly into a mirror of pain.

"He said it would be on the news…"

And Wilson was already heading for the TV and the remote.

He stopped zapping on CNN where a news banner was running about a bomb going off in New York. House saw his lover pale and he limped over to him. He didn't touch the empath, but he remained physically close.

When Wilson finally found the news report, House stared at the sight of what a bomb had done to an office building. The reporter said it was an amateur bomb, not an act of terrorism, while fire crews and police were in the background, moving around, pushing onlookers back. There were paramedics, ambulance crews, and walking wounded. Some people were interviewed, told about the loud explosion, about people screaming.

"The target of the bomb attack was apparently a lawyer's office on the second floor," the news reporter said. "The bomb went off just as Mr. John Pyre walked into his firm…"

"Oh my god," Wilson whispered.

House rested a hand on his lover's back, stroking over the rigid back once-twice, then took a step closer.

"You know someone in New York," he said, not even making it a question.

"Y-yes," Wilson stuttered, too upset to think straight.

"Call him."

"I…"

"Jimmy, call him."

Even if that person couldn't help, it would calm Wilson down to do something. In the meantime, House would hunt down Chase's private cell phone number. He had taken it from the intensivist's file and it had to be on his desk somewhere.

* * *

Don Flack gave the thin, pale woman a once-over. Janet Hagerty was probably in her late thirties, with short blond hair and hazel eyes. She was wearing a crisp blue blouse and a matching skirt, and the jacket belonging the outfit was folded neatly over her lap. She was a tall woman, coming up to Flack's height without even wearing high heels, and currently rather nervous.  
Understandable, he thought. If she had been just a few minutes earlier, she would have been the second victim.

"Ms. Hagerty," he started.

"Janet."

Flack nodded. "Janet," he accepted. "Janet, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your work, about your boss."

"Okay."

Her voice was small, but she was fighting for composure and getting stronger. Flack had one of the female officers bring her a soda while he was still checking a few things, and it had quieted her down even more.

"Janet, how long have you been working for Mr. Pyre?"

"Almost eight years, right from the start."

Flack checked the notes. Pyre was thirty-six.

"When did he start his own firm?"

"Five years ago, after his partner died." Janet stopped.

Flack raised an eyebrow, silently asking her to go on.

"Detective Flack… I'm not sure I should take about his private life."

"My colleagues will have to know about Mr. Pyre's private life, Janet," he told her calmly. "It might be important."

Janet looked around the interrogation room. It wasn't the one used for suspects. There was no mirror wall, there was no one watching. This was just the two of them.

"John is a very kind man," she said softly. "I knew him right from the day he started at Paul Cosworth's office. Paul was my old boss. He wanted to retire and was looking for a successor. John was that man and I liked him, too. Paul didn't mind that he was in a relationship at the time." She bit her lip, then squared her shoulders. "His name was Matthew. He and John were together until the day Matthew died in an accident."

Now Flack understood.

"And if that is a problem for you, Detective," Janet started.

He cut her off. "No, it isn't," Flack said quietly.

She gave him a narrow-eyed look and Don had to smile to himself. Protective. She really liked her boss, but not that way. Because John Pyre wasn't leaning that way.

"Does Mr. Pyre have special cases?" he changed the topic.

"He's an environmental lawyer," she answered and there was pride in her voice. "He worked very successful cases."

"Anything right now?"

Janet hesitated.

"Janet, you either tell me or I have to go digging. Everything is important."

"John normally works for a Japanese company called Shikon Enterprises. They request his services a lot. They are very much into nature reserve protection and all."

"He works global?"

"No, only the States."

"For a Japanese company?"

Janet smiled. "I know it sounds crazy, but he told me it's complicated. Shikon Enterprises is global and they are like the WWF or Greenpeace. They don't stage demonstrations or such things, they give the money to fund projects to help protect forests and parks and lakes and so on. John does the legal work for them over here."

Flack made some notes to look into Shikon Enterprises.

"You said he normally works for them?" he asked.

The secretary nodded. "He sometimes takes on other cases. One of them just lately. A man approached him, told him about his company dumping illegal waste in parks. He claimed that one of the park wardens is receiving payments for looking the other way."

"I need the names of the man who approached you and that company."

"I don't know his name, Detective. Mr. Pyre never told me. They didn't meet at the office either. As for the company, I never saw any files. He was still investigating."

"Does Mr. Pyre have an investigator working for him?"

Janet nodded. "Her name is Karen. She's really good."

"I need her full name and phone numbers," Flack told her.

Janet reached into her bag and pulled out a booklet. She leafed through the pages and then turned it around for Flack to read. "Here it is."

He copied the name and number, then smiled at Janet.

"Thank you. You were a great help. I might need to talk to you again."

"That's okay. Call me." A distraught expression flitted over her features. "I hope Mr. Pyre will be okay."

Flack hoped so, too, because otherwise this would be pushed up from attempted murder to murder.

* * *

Mac had just put all pieces of evidence back into the appropriate bags and had locked them away when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the display and found it wasn't a City number.

"Taylor," he answered.

"Detective Taylor, it's Dr. Wilson," a voice answered. "I don't know if you remember me."

Mac almost chuckled. How could he forget the empath? He walked into his office, letting the glass door close behind him.

"I remember, Dr. Wilson. What can I do for you?"

"I need a favor," the paranormal told Mac, voice quiet. "A bomb went off in New York, in an office building, and a friend of a friend was injured. I'd like to know how things are."

Mac was briefly frozen, then he shook his head. Damn those coincidences. "I don't have to ask around for that one, Dr. Wilson. I am the investigating detective."

"What?!" Wilson blurted.

"Is your friend's name Chase?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I talked to him. He called the victim's cell. John Pyre, lawyer?"

"Yes, that's him. How is he?"

"I haven't heard from the hospital yet, but it looks serious. He was lucky the bomber was an amateur, or he would have been a lot worse off. He wasn't in the immediate line of the blast, but there is still damage."

There was a moment of silence, then Wilson said, "Can you keep me up to date? If it doesn't interfere with your work, that is. Mr. Pyre is a friend and so is Dr. Chase."

"Of course."

"And Detective? Both are allies."

Mac almost laughed out loud. "Damn," he only said. "Might this be related to the bomb?"

"I doubt it." Wilson sighed and Mac wondered what else was on the man's mind. "Detective Taylor… I'm not sure what your position is on…well…" Another moment of hesitation. "Chase and Pyre are partners."

Mac blinked, then a light went on. "Lovers?" he only said.

"Yes."

He smiled. "Don't worry, Dr. Wilson. It won't be a problem."

Again silence. Then, "Thank you."

Mac briefly wondered how well an empath could read emotions through someone's voice, but he knew he had gathered some serious brownie points for some reason.

"I'll keep you posted, Dr. Wilson. Whatever happens."

When he had hung up, Mac gazed out his window, wondering about fate and coincidence. He would have to talk to Flack about this.

* * *

Don Flack knew that by just looking at John Pyre he would have disturbing dreams again. Not really nightmares. Those he had dealt with. Just… flashbacks. He had one while walking into the hospital, following Mac to talk to Dr. Robert Chase. It had been eight months now and things had quieted down. His wounds were healed, he had been declared fit for duty, physically as well as psychologically, but something like this would never go away.

"You okay?" Mac asked quietly.

"Uh, yeah."

Flack gave him a little smile, then nodded at the man sitting outside the Intensive Care Unit. Taylor only frowned briefly, then went back to their case.

Chase was younger than Flack would have thought. Probably early thirties, blond, dressed in street clothes, and he looked pale and harried. No wonder. His lover had been nearly killed by a bomb.

Mac had brought Don up to speed on matters concerning the paranormal side of this investigation, the new paranormal side, and Flack had nearly forgotten to break at a red light. So Chase and Pyre were allies, and lovers, and Mac knew one of Chase's colleague through his 'job' as a Seeker.

What a web of connections, Flack mused.

In turn he had told Mac about Janet's interview, about his law firm, about the Japanese company. Flack was still running that one down, as well as looking for the PI Pyre had used in the past. So far Karen was a no show, and Shikon Enterprises wasn't more than a website for Flack.

As the two detectives approached Chase looked up. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Dr. Chase? I'm Mac Taylor," the CSI introduced himself. "We talked on the phone."

"Uh, yes, hi," Chase said, getting up.

"We need to ask you some questions," Flack started.

Chase shrugged. "Okay."

"How long have you known John Pyre?"

"Four years," was the honest answer. "We met when I came here for my fellowship. I work at the teaching hospital in Princeton-Plainsboro," Chase added as an explanation.

"You're a doctor?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what Mr. Pyre was working on recently?"

Chase frowned, his eyes flitting over to the ICU window. Flack tried not to follow that gaze. He knew he had spent too much time in there himself.

"His last case was about illegal waste dumps. He's an environmental lawyer. We didn't talk much about it. He only said that an employee from that company came to him about it, gave him enough proof to investigate."

"Do you know the name of the company?"

"No, sorry. He doesn't betray confidence, like I don't give him the names of my patients."

Don nodded, making more notes. He knew all of this already, but he just followed procedure.

"Was it the only case he worked on?" Mac asked.

Chase frowned. "I think so. I know his main employment is by a company called Shikon Enterprises, but this was a solo case. It means he takes cases of interest outside the company business when things are slow," he explained.

"And he never mentioned a name? Anything about the company he investigated? About the employee who contacted him?"

"No. I can't think of anything."

"New or old company? New York based?" Flack pressed on.

"No idea."

"Does Mr. Pyre have any enemies?" Mac asked.

Chase's eyes widened. "I don't think so. I mean, he said as a lawyer he always upsets people, mostly the losing party. He gets threatening letters, but every lawyer does." He grimaced. "Doctor's, too. He never gave them much credit, actually."

"And those threats were always out of his profession as a lawyer?"

Chase frowned at Taylor. "I don't understand…"

Flack watched as his lover's features grew more intense. "Dr. Chase, did Mr. Pyre ever take on cases dealing with anything but the environmental issues he specializes in?"

"I don't know what you're getting at?"

The corridor was empty, there was no nurse or doctor around. They were secluded, alone.

"Did Mr. Pyre ever take on paranormal cases?"

Don watched as several emotions played over the other man's features. Chase didn't blurt out things like 'Paranormal?' or 'What the fuck are you talking about?'. He just met the hard gaze from the lead CSI, refusing to give anything away, and finally Taylor smiled a little.

"Dr. Wilson gave me a heads-up," Mac said calmly. "Actually he called to ask a favor. It turns out that the favor is my own primary case."

"Who are you?" Chase asked quietly.

"I'm the Seeker Dr. Wilson asked to confirm his abilities."

Chase briefly closed his eyes, then turned to look at Flack. Don smiled briefly.

"Ally," he only answered the unspoken question.

"Damn," Chase muttered.

"Wilson said you and Pyre are allies, too."

"Yes."

"And you don't sound like a New Yorker," Mac poked gently.

"Australian. I came here for the junior position at the Diagnostics department in Princeton." Chase leaned against the wall, arms wrapped around his chest, looking tired. "And to answer your question, no, John never took paranormal cases, or anything relating to that. Not to my knowledge. If he runs into something paranormal throughout environmental matters? I don't know. Like I said, he doesn't share details."

Flack gave his lover a brief look. Chase looked run down all of a sudden, as if he had finally allowed his barriers to slide. As if the revelation that they shared a secret, the paranormal secret, had given him the necessary bravery to do so.

Mac just nodded.

"I know you have my number, Dr. Chase. Where do you stay while you're here?"

"I don't have a room yet," was the soft answer. "I'll let you know the moment I have a hotel."

"Alright. If you think of something, call."

It got them a tired smile. "I will."

* * *

Mac walked back into the lab to the sight of Lindsay going through a mountain of files.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Pyre's files. At least those not on a hard drive. Stella is handling those," Monroe replied. "Hawkes and I went through the apartment and found nothing, Mac. It's spotless. As for the office, this is a part of what's in his file cabinets. Hawkes has the rest, Stella the computer."

Mac nodded. "Anything in there?"

"Legal stuff." Lindsay sighed. "I should have gone to law school. As for Dr. Robert Chase. He's Australian by birth, born in Melbourne. Grew up and went to school there, father was Dr. Rowan Chase, deceased. Rather prominent rheumatologist. Robert went into intensive care, came to the States five years ago, and has worked first as a fellow and now a resident in the Diagnostics department of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

Mac nodded and took the file from her. "Thanks." He smiled at her and looked for Stella. He discovered her in one of the A/V labs, eyes on a computer screen.

"Hey," Mac greeted her.

"Hey. Found some things on his latest case," she told him. "And threats by email. I already handed that off to be traced back to the source."

"How's our bomb coming along?"

"Pretty well. Pipe bomb, amateurish," she explained. "Danny took it to a lab and is trying to recreate it." Stella stretched, wincing as cramped muscles protested. "How's your end coming along?"

"Flack is still looking for this PI Pyre used. The guy who contacted him in the first place is still a shadow."

His next stop was with Danny, who gestured at a computer screen. "Pipe bomb. Used an exhaust pipe," Messer explained. "Easy to make. It looks like it was time-delayed."

"So the bomber knew when the victim would come into his office?"

"Had to."

Mac frowned. "Good work, Danny."

His beeper interrupted and he checked it. The message came from Flack. He had finally located the PI.

*

Karen Cooper sat in the interrogation room, meeting Flack's gaze evenly.

"I take it you heard about the bomb that went off in John Pyre's office?" the detective asked.

"Who hasn't? It's all over the news."

"You worked for him, Ms. Cooper?"

"Yeah, now and then. He appreciates good work and I appreciate a good pay-check."

"What was your latest case?"

She smirked. "Confidential."

Flack drew out a warrant. "No, it isn't."

Karen sighed. "So what do you wanna know?"

"His latest case, illegal waste dumps in a national reserve."

"Sorenson Ltd." She leaned back, shrugging. "What in specific?"

"All you found out about it for him."

Her smiled widened. "You got time?"

Flack mirrored the smile. "All the time we need."

* * *

Dinner was a microwaved pizza and a beer. Flack didn't feel like finesses tonight and he carried the plate with his food over to the couch, where he sat down and watched the news while he ate the salami pizza. There was news coverage on the bomb again, but it no longer was a headline. Flack had received numerous requests from reporters and he had just barely suffered through them. He hated reporters. Bane of his existence.

Mac was still at the lab and from the amount of work piling up for his lover, Flack didn't expect him to come over any time tonight. He would probably crash at his own place.

The news report ended and he chose a game, letting the pictures and sounds wash over him. He propped his feet on the table, balanced the beer on his stomach, and just tried to relax.

It was in the last quarter of the game that a key turned in the lock and Don was startled out of the doze he had fallen into.

"Mac?" he asked, surprised.

The criminalist closed the door behind him, smiling. "I hope you didn't expect someone else," he teased.

"No. No… But, what are you doing here?"

It was past eleven already and if Mac had just left the lab, Don had truly not expected him here.  
Mac came over and gave him a kiss. "You didn't expect me," he replied, not answering the question.

"No. It's late. You worked late. I mean…"

"You thought I'd stay at my place." Those sharp eyes regarded him closely. "Do you want me to go."

Flack laughed and caught another kiss. "Nah. Since you're already here… I think I have some more pizza in the freezer."

Taylor chuckled. "Sounds like a plan."

But he didn't let him go. Instead he continued to assault Don't mouth, making the taller man moan in appreciation. The kisses grew more intense, Mac delivering little bite along Don's jaw, down his neck, and the detective shuddered.

"Mac…" he murmured.

Taylor smirked as he met the bright blue eyes. "Hungry?" he purred.

Oh hell… oh hell, yes…

* * *

House limped into Diagnostics and dumped his backpack. It was just past nine, a personal record for him in coming in early on a day where he had no patients threatening to die if he didn't diagnose them. He had taken the bike, much to Wilson's wordless frown. Wilson was probably already hard at work. He had left an hour before House had even started to dress. Cuddy had let him come back under one condition: he wouldn't exert himself, he would only be in on consults, and he would leave signing reports and such to Tom Williams. Williams was a fellow oncologist who usually took over the department when Wilson was away or sick.

"Good morning, children!" House called, meeting his juniors' eyes. "Way too good to spend it in here, actually. So, do we have something that keeps Dr. House busy or can I just turn around and say good-bye?"

"Chase hasn't come in yet," Cameron spoke up.

"I meant ailing patients, moaning Cuddys and the world breaking apart at the seams," House quipped.

"Chase is late," Foreman repeated. "We already called him and got the answering machine."

"So he doesn't want to talk to you. Easy."

"Maybe something is wrong," Cameron persisted.

"Something is. He's taking personal time. That's it," House only said and went over to the kitchen, inspecting the mugs. He found a clean one and poured himself a coffee.

"Personal time?" Cameron echoed.

"Yes, look it up in the dictionary if you don't know what it is."

"Did something happen?"

"How should I know?" House raised an eyebrow as he leaned against the kitchen sink.

"He called you!"

"Yep. Stating the obvious here."

"But… maybe he needs help," Cameron suggested.

"He doesn't. Leave it at that. He wants personal time, he has it."

"How long?" Foreman inquired.

House shrugged. "No idea."

He knew Cameron wouldn't let it go and probably dig into this, so he had to talk to Cuddy before Cameron stirred something up again. The woman would be the bane of his existence one day.

"So, nothing for me? Okay. Put up the 'do not disturb sign'. Later." And he limped out of Diagnostics, heading for the elevator.

As not otherwise expected, Cameron hurried after him.

"Dr. House!"

"Drop it, Cameron."

"But…"

"Do you understand 'personal'?" he demanded.

She drew back. "Yes."

"Good."

The elevator came and he limped inside, relived when she didn't follow. Cameron wouldn't leave it alone. Time to do some damage control.

* * *

"John suffered severe blast trauma," Dr. Holland explained, voice calm and compassionate. "He wasn't in the direct line of the explosion, but he received numerous lacerations to the face, neck and chest, as well as to the front of the arms and legs. He didn't break any bones, though."

"What about his eyes?" Chase asked.

His voice was steadier than he would have expected, and his gaze strayed to the silent figure behind the glass wall, taking in the bandaged eyes.

"He suffered ocular trauma, Dr. Chase. I know you're an intensivist and you'll understand how little we can say about what it means for the future. Right now we have to let him heal."

"How bad?" Chase demanded.

"John has conjuctival tears in both eyes and there is of course the danger of endophthalmitis. Concussion from the blast caused cataract in the right eye by rupturing the lens capsule allowing access of the fibres to the aqueous humour. Dr. Cruz, our ophthalmologist, hasn't found any evidence of dislocation of the lens. I'll get you in contact with him if you have more questions, but for now we have to wait for the injuries to heal."

Chase felt himself starting to tremble inside. "How are his chances?"

"You need to talk to Dr. Cruz for that."

"Okay," he said faintly, now looking fully at the unconscious figure.

"If you need anything, tell the nurses. I noticed there is no immediate family listed…?" Holland inquired.

"No. No, there is none."

"And you are?"

Chase steeled himself and looked back at the woman. "We are together."

Holland showed no averse reaction to the revelation. She just nodded. "I'll have one of the nurses put you down as next of kin, Dr. Chase."

"Thank you."

"Go home, Dr. Chase. Get some rest. We have your number and right now there is nothing you can do. When John wakes, it will be on his own terms, on his body's terms."

He hesitated, then finally nodded. He had been in Holland's shoes countless times, and for the first time he understood how hard it was for a relative or friend to just leave.

Chase finally left the hospital and took a cab over to John's place, only to find crime scene tape all over the door.

"Shit," he whispered and turned around, leaving again.

He would have to find a hotel room.

* * *

It was late when the phone rang and House cursed softly, very willing to let the answering machine take the call. Wilson shot him a quizzical look, but he didn't make any effort to get up either. The answering machine started, but no one left a message.

A minute later Wilson's cell phone rang.

House cursed louder as his lover took the call.

"Robert?" Wilson blurted, alerting House to the identity of the caller. "How are you? How is John?"

House sat up, brows drawn down over alert blue eyes.

Wilson listened intently and started to write down notes. He asked several medical questions, requested names from doctors and their phone numbers, and he finally started to soothingly talk Chase out of whatever irrational moment the young Australian had gotten himself into. House simply watched and listened, a faint smile around his lips as he witnessed his lover's Soothing abilities. In the end Wilson hung up, looking worried, if not disturbed.

"Pyre has orbital lacerations of both eyes," he said quietly. "There is pulmonary barotrauma, but they have that under control. Numerous lacerations and contusions all over his body. The problematic area are the eyes."

"Penetration?" House only wanted to know.

"Yes. The right eyes took the worst damage. They got the glass out and there is apparently no retinal damage or lens dislocation, but the lacerations are deep. The prognosis runs toward that he won't be able to see again. Best case is 3/60."

House's face was serious. That was legally blind.

Wilson sat down again. "Damn," he muttered.

House's mind was racing and he suddenly got up, hobbling determinedly over to the desk he mostly used to just pile journals, newspapers and books on. He sifted through it all and finally unearthed what looked like an address book.

"House?" Wilson queried.

House ignored him and grabbed his phone, starting to dial. After the third ring he got an answer.

"My name's Dr. Gregory House. I need to talk to Tim Sunkeeper."

He saw Wilson's eyebrows shoot up and grinned briefly. Then he had the healer from San Diego on the line and things got down to business.

* * *

There were blood drops on the floor. He followed them, the flash light illuminating more and more of the red stains. It was a trail, a lead, and it ended at an overturned ladder.

Alarms sounded.

Someone yelled at people to get out.

"Out! Out, there's a bomb! Get out!"

Cell phone ringing. Mac's voice ordering people to move.

He ran through the corridor.

"Get the hell outta here!"

And then there was only the incredible pressure of air pushing him back, a loud sound that registered only later, and the pain.

Nothingness.

 

Flack knew little of the actual explosion, the moment when the bomb had gone off, or the time after that. He thought he remembered an incredible, searing pain to the abdomen. He thought he remembered something cutting at his clothes, his skin… but it was like a dream.

A disturbing, fuzzy, too hazy dream.

The nightmares right after he had recovered enough to be coherent had been about pain, about helplessness, about darkness and violence. There had never been anything clear, no monsters with faces, just shadows and the sensation of death looming over him.

Mac should have more nightmares. He had been there, with him, keeping him alive with his hands inside Flack's innards. But Taylor had a better handle on things it seemed.

A lot better handle.

Getting up, Don ran a hand over his tired face. He hadn't really slept well ever since the beginning of his latest primary case. His lieutenant had agreed to hand off secondary cases to other detectives. Bombs going off in New York were very public, very high profile, and Flack was doing his best to keep the press as uninformed about most of the critical details as he could.  
He walked into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water, exhaling slowly. One hand came to rest on the palm-sized scar just underneath the shirt. It was still red and very visible, it would never disappear, and no reconstructive surgery could help there. It was a reminder of what he had survived, and he still abhorred it sometimes. There were moments when he was horrified by the mark, even if Mac insisted he didn't feel disgusted. Flack had taken to never changing in the locker room when someone might watch.

"You're gonna be okay. Just hang on. We'll get you outta here."

Those were disjointed sentences, had made sense only after a long time, when he had pieced together what he remembered, what he dreamed about.

Flack took a huge gulp of water and walked back into the living room. He was tired, but he didn't think he could sleep again. Mac was in bed, blessedly unaware of his lover's restlessness, and he hoped he wouldn't wake. He couldn't deal with this right now. He needed time.

Time to deal with something he had thought he had a handle on.

* * *

"Hey Flack," Danny called, smiling a greeting at him. "You okay, man?"

Don frowned. "Yeah. Why?"

"You've been looking a bit down. I mean I understand with the case and all." There was a sympathetic expression in the other man's eyes.

Flack tried not snap back. He hated the sympathies more than the pity. It had been the predominant emotion in many colleagues' expressions the first few weeks after his return to duty. Some had treated him normally, others had used kids gloves.

"I'm fine, Messer, okay?"

Danny's brows rose a little. "Okay," he echoed. "Whatever you say."

They walked down the corridor and Danny shot him little looks now and then.

"Messer…" Flack warned.

"You're really touchy, Flack. Loosen up. I asked, you answered. I'm cool. Or is Mac riding you too hard?"

Don stopped abruptly, staring at his friend. Maybe it was his imagination that there was a twinkle in those knowing eyes. The smirk around the mouth wasn't his imagination, though.

"You got anything to contribute to the case?" the detective asked.

"Nah. Nothing new. Waiting on some lab results."

"Then get lost."

"Ouch, man. Wanna grab a beer after shift?" Danny changed the topic.

"Yeah, sure."

"Great. See you then."

And Danny was off. Don shook his head, wondering what that had been all about. Then he pushed even those thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the case.

* * *

Mac knew from the moment they had walked onto the crime scene that this would most likely trigger something in his lover. Hell, it triggered something in him! And not in a pleasant way. The bomb site was smaller than the one he kept thinking back to, and he wasn't trapped in this one. There was no severely injured detective lying next to him, in shock, breathing too fast, bleeding, and he didn't have to process his lover after surgery…

Still, it was a flashback worthy of Beirut the moment he had stepped into that ruined office. And he had seen how still and pale Flack had gone throughout those first hours on the crime scene.  
Now, two days later, after talking to Chase, going over evidence from the blast site and the immediate victim, things were truly getting to Don. He slept badly, he left early for work and almost ran himself into the ground with following leads. They were good leads and Flack did outstanding work tracking down suspects and data, but there was only so much he could take. Karen Cooper's information had helped narrow down the field. That and what they had been able to get out of Pyre's files.

On day four, after the fourth night with bad dreams, Mac decided to end this game. He hadn't crowded Don for a reason. He had been through all of this before with the younger man. He had been there for the nightmares, he had been there for the sudden loss when Don had been unable to grasp as to what he was dreaming about, and he had been there for the panic attacks.

The case kept him from having some quiet time with his lover. Unless they found the bomber and maybe get the men behind him, neither could find any rest. They were getting closer to the bomber and with each lead, the noose drew tighter around the suspect's neck.

The break-through came on that fourth day. It came with a scuffle and pursuing a fleeing suspect through back alleys and over walls. Flack was in front, much faster with his longer legs, and Mac took a short cut down another alley to cut off their suspect. There were a bunch of uniforms giving chase, too, and he heard sirens from a police car.

When they finally cornered the man, a Foster Drake, low life scum for hire with a rap sheet as long as Mac's arm, he didn't go down easily. Mac was still several yards away when Drake kicked hard at Flack and the detective went down with a grimace, only to scramble to his feet again and launch himself at the suspect.

"Can it, maggot!" Don ordered harshly, getting out his cuffs. "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of John Pyre!"

He rattled off the Miranda rights while pulling Drake to his feet. Mac gave him a once over, dismayed at the blood running from his lover's nose and the bruise he saw on one cheekbone.  
More police offers swarmed in and took over the perp. Flack brushed off his now rather dirty suit.

"Man, that was new," he groused, then swiped his hand under his nose to wipe away the blood.

"You okay?" Mac asked quietly.

He didn't miss how Flack was supporting one side, the scarred side. There was no blood on the white shirt, but it probably hurt.

"Yeah. Kicked me in the ribs. It's okay."

Flack looked down at the stained pants in dismay. Mac smirked a little, hiding his worry behind a professional pat on the back, then went after the arresting officers and their suspect.

*

Mac assigned Lindsay and Danny to process Drake's home. There was enough evidence already to damn the man, but it was procedure. And Mac wanted to make sure the guy went away for life. If they found a connection to Sorenson Ltd. it would be even better. He hadn't seen Don since the arrest and the following interrogation. His lover was probably busy with his reports. Still, he couldn't push the sight of the hand over the scar away.

Sue him for being protective. He had almost lost Don once already. He wouldn't lose him again.

*

Two hours later, with his report almost done, Mac was ready to go home.

"Want to join me for a beer?" Stella offered as she stuck her head into his office.

"Rain check?" Taylor replied.

Her eyes were serious as she met his gaze. She nodded. "Okay. And you'll find him in PD. Hawkes was just there and he told me Flack looks a bit ragged."

Mac sighed softly. "It's been bad."

"For all of us," she agreed and walked into his office. "How are you holding up?"

"Good."

Stella gave him a narrow-eyed once-over.

"Stella, I'm fine."

"Then go to him and drag him home for some TLC before I do it, Mac. He sure needs it." Stella winked and left his office.

Taylor chuckled a little. Yeah, she probably would.

* * *

He found Flack right where he had suspected his lover to be: at his desk, buried in a file, and looking like hell. The tie was loosened, but the jacket was still on, and he looked too pale to be healthy. He had cleaned up enough to look presentable, but there were smudges on the jacket and the pants that spoke of the scuffle of the arrest.

"Hey, Flack," he called.

Don looked up, eyes holding a dull light, and he straightened a little. "What's up?" he asked.  
Cover. They behaved like two colleagues.

"They guys are going for a beer. Celebrating a case slam-dunked. I thought you could need the distraction."

Good cover. Nothing off about this. All so very normal.

Flack hesitated, but Mac's expression grew more intent, letting his lover know that 'no' wasn't an answer.

"Sure," he answered.

With a few clicks he powered down the computer, then took his gun out of the drawer, secured it at his side, and the two men left the precinct. Flack was silent and Mac didn't so much as give the other man more than a glance. When they were in the garage, Mac only said "Home", then walked to his own car.

He knew his 'order' wouldn't be disobeyed.

 

Mac watched as his lover walked into his apartment and shrugged out of the jacket that hid his lean frame. Flack looked positively wasted, and the setting sun's rays slanting through the windows didn't help make him look better. If at all, he was even more pale. He couldn't tell if his lover had lost weight. Flack was a good eater. He loved his food and Mac always wondered how he did it. Don didn't seem to gain a pound, though he had the eating habits of a fast food addict.

"I could do with that beer now," Don murmured as he headed for the kitchen.  
Taylor followed and silently took the offered bottle from his lover's hand, studying the exhausted man.

"Don't," the detective only said tiredly, pushing past the older man.

Oh, he would. Nothing could stop him from that goal. Mac followed, watched as Don tore off the tie and kicked off the shoes, his movements restless, jerky.

"Don," he said quietly.

The blue eyes were burning with exhaustion, with memories of something Flack couldn't really remember, and there was a desperation there that drew Mac closer.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Flack laughed humorlessly. "Last night?"

"I mean slept, not closed your eyes and then got up to spend the rest of the night dozing in front of the TV."

Those intense eyes evaded him and Taylor nodded to himself. He closed the last distance, placing the beer bottle on a window sill, and slid an arm around the slightly taller man's waist.

"You're exhausted, Don."

"It was a tough case," the detective argued.

"And it brought up memories."

"I don't remember the explosion," Flack argued weakly.

"You remember enough. Disjointed images. I know. You told me. I was there," he said softly, his voice never losing its even quality. Mac held the wavering gaze. "Your body remembers." And he let his other hand slide over the scar, making Don hitch a breath. "This isn't easy for either of us, Don. But running yourself into the ground won't help. We got the bastard. Let it go."

Flack closed his eyes, one hand clenching into Mac's shoulder. He had talked to a therapist countless times. He had been declared fit for duty. Still, those past events would forever be there.

"Don," Mac coaxed.

"I'm not weak!" the younger man suddenly spat and tore out of the embrace, startling Taylor. "I'm not going to go through that again! I can't go through it again! I've dealt with it, Mac!"

Taylor regarded him. "Yes, you have. It was just a bad memory."

"I don't even remember!" Flack argued heatedly. "I can't remember the explosion and all I know is that you were there, in the hospital! Why is this happening!?"

And again one hand was on the scar, an unconscious gesture Flack had retained from months ago. Mac let him rant, watched the body language, and it hurt to see his lover so close at the brink into tears. Of course Don didn't remember and Mac was very glad about it.

He walked over to the shaky, distraught man, placed a hand over Don's that was protecting the scar, and he pulled the hand away. Pressing close to Flack, he claimed a gentle kiss.

"Come to bed," he coaxed.

"I can't sleep."

"You will. You need sleep. Come to bed."

Another kiss, deeper now, with tongues involved. Don answered with growing hunger, pressing very close to his lover. Mac felt the growing need, the desperation, and if it took this to get Flack to unwind, to make him forget for a while, he wouldn't say no.

Afterwards, with the adrenaline tapering out of the system, with his lover relaxed and unwound, he might have a chance for the tender loving care Stella had suggested.

Don's hands were sliding over his sides, his back, pushing and pulling at the dress shirt, and Mac chuckled.

"Wow, slow down, Don."

"Can't. Won't," Flack gasped. "Please, Mac. Help me forget," he pleaded.

For now, Taylor thought as he pulled Flack's shirt out of the dark pants. He purposefully slid a hand over the uneven scarring, drawing a shuddering whine from Flack, but he kept his lover from drawing back, kissing him hard instead.

"Does it hurt?" he asked roughly.

"No. Fine. I'm fine. Just bruised. Nothing wrong," Don answered breathlessly.

They ended up in bed eventually. And Mac took his time taking care of his younger lover, drawing out the inevitable climax until Don begged and pleaded with him.

Afterwards he had a sweaty, panting puddle of satisfied need in his arms, stroking over the lean form, enjoying the aftershocks racing through Don's body. A shower would have been in order, but a hand towel had to do to clean up the worst. He didn't want this lethargy to evaporate again, and Mac watched until Don was asleep. He waited a while longer, making sure that the sleep was deep, then he slid out of the bed and washed off the sweat.

Mac didn't fall asleep until two hours later, but it was enough time to assure himself that no bad dreams threatened. And throughout the night, part of him was keeping close track of Don's condition.

 

It was the first time in five days that they woke up in the same bed.

* * *

Chase stood in the hospital room, gazing at his lover. John looked lost and alone in the hospital bed. There were numerous bandages covering wounds, some hidden under the hospital-issue gown, and his eyes…

Chase swallowed.

His eyes were bandaged.

Blond hair had been combed out of the face into an unfamiliar pattern and Chase found himself next to the bed, fingers carding through the strands. Someone had washed it. Probably a nurse. It was shorter than Chase remembered it. John must have gotten a haircut just recently.

His fingers skipped over the bandage once, then stroked through the hair once more.

They had had a wonderful year and now… now some insane attack had almost taken John from him. There were no predictions as to whether there would be a full recovery, but Chase was praying. He was hoping. He wanted John healthy and whole, and even if there was eye damage, he still loved him.

If only he would wake up.

* * *

In another part of New York, Mac Taylor was glad to see his lover sleep peacefully. He had woken before Don and he was watching the young features, studied the light stubble on the narrow face. The dark hair was unruly, mussed up, and Mac had to smile at that. Don had cut his hair some time ago, changing from the longish strands to something rather short compared to before. At work he looked professional, smooth, tie and dress shirt with suit, but at home Taylor saw the private man.

He liked both. He liked the crispness, the smooth lines of the dark suit and the always changing shirt. Don Flack was a man with a very wide wardrobe of shirts and ties, and Mac liked to play the guessing game as to what the next combination would be. It was never loud or garish. It had style. Like the man himself.

The sun was already up. It was eight a.m. and Mac was glad it was a weekend. He was on call, but maybe he got lucky and didn't have to go in.

"How long have you been watching?" Don drawled, half-lidded eyes watching Mac in turn.

The criminalist chuckled and leaned over for a good morning kiss. "I like to watch you."

"'S what you get for getting together with a criminalist. What's next? Fingerprints?"

Mac grinned more and ran a hand over the light dusting of hair on his lover's chest. He playfully brushed the pads of his fingers over the dark nubs of Don't nipples.

"I'm all for processing," Taylor murmured.

"Uh-huh."

Their lips caught again, languidly kissing.

"Slept well?" Mac murmured.

"Yeah."

There was more he wanted to ask, to say, but he didn't. Mac just looked into the blue eyes, read more than the monosyllabic answer in there. With a new kiss he finally sat up, smiling at the protest he saw flitting over the young face.

"Shower," he instructed. "Then I want something for breakfast. I'm starving."

He gave his lover a pointed look.

"What?" Don asked with slight annoyance.

"Nothing."

"You saying I'm skinny?" Don cried as Mac headed for the bathroom.

Taylor didn't answer, just smirked to himself. Don muttered something rude as he climbed out of bed. It was a good sign he didn't immediately pull on his shirt but kept his upper body, and with it the scar, uncovered. Mac watched him as he went into the kitchen to start the coffee, then he closed the bathroom door.

They would need time for this.

* * *

John Pyre woke two days later, to the darkness of his covered eyes, and with barely any memories of the day of the explosion or the days before that.

Short term memory loss, they called it. It was anyone's guess if he would ever remember anything, but Chase didn't care. John didn't need to remember getting blown up.

"How bad?" Pyre asked when the doctor had left after talking to him.

Chase was still touching his lover's hand and now curled his fingers around it.

"At this stage," he answered, "they can't be sure."

"I just heard that from my doctor. Now I want to hear it from my lover."

The Australian sighed. "The damage was extensive, John."

The hand in his tightened its hold and Pyre tensed.

"You might lose sight in one eye. But nothing is certain right now. Wilson called and said House was threatening whoever he could reach to get a healer over here."

John gave a brief laugh of disbelief. "What? Why? I'm… I'm not special."

Chase closed his eyes. "You are. To me."

"And you're House's special friend?" the lawyer demanded.

"I don't know."

John was silent and Chase let his fingers play over the hand he was holding.

"Healers can't reverse permanent damage," the older man finally said.

"I know. But if one comes, there might be a chance that you don't end up blind."

"If, Robert. Why would a healer want to help me?"

Chase stared at his lover, took in the derisive touch to the words, and a moment of anger washed over him.

"So you're not some important paranormal!" he snapped. "But you're important. To me!"

"Robert, be realistic," he was interrupted. "Thousands of people could use the help of a healer, but only a few can get it. Those who know about the paranormal. House was important enough; he's a Diagnostic."

Chase jumped up, anger rising. "And you're an ally! You're the man I love! House said he'd find someone!"

"He's not god."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, aware that Pyre was right. Even if House had a certain stubbornness and could be scary, it wasn't enough to yell at people to get a healer to take interest. John wasn't that important, that high up in any ranks.

"Robert?"

The soft voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked over to the bed and found John blindly reaching for him. Chase grabbed the hand and squeezed it.

"Sorry," John murmured. "For the outburst. I'm not good at dealing with things like permanent disabilities." He tried a smile, but it looked grotesque.

"Neither am I," Chase confessed softly.

* * *

The next days were filled with visitors. One was Mac Taylor, inquiring into how Pyre was, telling them that they had the case water-tight for the DA and that the bomber would be put behind bars. Since there was an affiliation with Sorenson, investigations had been picked up by the PD and the company was now under serious pressure by the media as well.

John smiled a little at that. "I don't know how much of my inventory survived," he told Mac, "but there should be a lot of dirt in the files I have on Sorenson. I'm willing to hand it over if needed."

"I think the DA would appreciate it. Thank you," the criminalist replied. "As for your things, only the outer office was destroyed. Your assistant organized the move of all other things to storage."

John looked relieved.

"We already went through some of your case files throughout our investigation," Mac continued. "Everything will be returned to you."

"Thanks," was the quiet answer.

Taylor was surprised how little protest the lawyer was putting up against the police and CSI going through his confident files. He exchanged a few more words with Chase, then left, thoughtful.

* * *

He had been in New York for eight days now, taking care of matters, taking care of John, but Chase knew he was only pushing the inevitable further and further away. It was on the eighth day that he called Wilson.

He didn't expect House to answer James Wilson's personal cell phone.

"Well, the lost son calls home," House said.

"Uhm, yes. I… I need some more time."

"You're not getting it," House told him firmly.

"John needs my help!"

"He's a grown man, Chase. He knows how to suck it up. You either get your little kiwi butt back to Princeton or I'll have it dragged here!" House snapped into the phone.

Chase was silent, wheels turning in his head. He didn't want to leave John, but he knew that his fellowship would be terminated if he didn't go back to work.

He heard a struggle, a curse, and then there was a new voice on the phone.

"Robert?"

Somehow Wilson managed to put enough soothing warmth into this one word to immediately relax Chase.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"We can arrange a transfer," Wilson told him. "Flack can have the correct papers for Trinity done. I talked to him about the possibility. I know I'm no longer an ally, but I have a few sources to make this transfer sound from our end, too."

"W-what?" Chase stuttered.

"Take it or leave it!" House growled in the background.

"I… okay," he answered.

"Good. I'll get things going," Wilson told him. "Flack will probably call you soon and arrange things from his end."

"I'll tell John," the Australian said, stunned. "Thanks."

He hung up, mystified, relieved and slightly reeling.

*

In Princeton, House was glaring at his lover as Wilson closed the cell phone.

"What are we?" he demanded. "The Salvation Army?"

"Chase won't leave Pyre alone," Wilson said reasonably.

"So you'll start moving heaven and earth for him? What are you? Mother Theresa revived?"

"No, I'm a friend who tries to help."

House snorted. "If it goes to his head, I'll have yours on a platter!"

Wilson smiled a little. "It won't, Greg."

"How do you know?"

"Because if this was you, I'd be simply glad that someone is helping me," Wilson told him firmly. "John was nearly killed. Chase finally found someone, finally allows himself to be what he wants to be, and it's nearly taken away. He's shaken, probably terrified, and he won't leave his lover. I can empathize!"

"Because you're a fucking empath!" House snapped.

"Sue me!"

Brown eyes flared with emotions and House was suddenly very still. He looked at the other man, took in the tension in the slender frame, and shook his head.

"Too close for comfort," he murmured.

"W-what?"

"It did happen to me, didn't it, Jimmy? You were in Chase's shoes. It just happened here."

Wilson paled noticeably, then looked away. House approached him, determined.

"So you empathize with the wombat and his lover. It's dangerous to care that much."

"No," was the quiet denial. "It's dangerous to stop caring and turn your back to the world."

"Ouch," House muttered. "Now that was almost personal."

"Greg… don't, okay? Don't start this, don't push. I'm helping Chase. I might not be an ally any more, but he's my friend and he stood up for us in the past. It's the least I can do. And the least you can do is to shut up about it," Wilson said firmly, glaring a little. "Because you either lose him over this or you let him be."

"Let such a chance slide by?" House whined.

"Yes, let it. Chase is vulnerable and even you won't stoop that low."

"How do you know?"

Wilson smiled. “I just know."

"That's not an answer. That's evading an answer. I can use lover boy against our resident Aussie.  
He'll be so drawn to his wounded side… it'll be fun to watch."

There was a strange expression in Wilson's eyes. House studied his lover, aware that he was at a disadvantage. Wilson was empathic and could read him in a way no one else could, not even the people who had been closest to him in the past. Stacy had nothing on Wilson in the reading department. There was no way James wouldn't pick up on House's emotions regarding what had happened.

"Right," was the soft reply, then Wilson pushed past him and went into his home office.

Probably to get things going.

House remained where he was, thoughtful, wondering, just thinking about what had happened. Things were getting complicated again.

* * *

"I'm not going!"

"Why not?"

"This is my home, Robert! I want to be here!"

"This is a hospital room!" Chase argued. "There's no difference to a hospital room in Princeton!"

John visibly clenched his teeth.

"I can't stay here forever," Chase pressed on.

"You don't have to. I'm no invalid!"

"You can't see!"

"And I'm in the hospital!" John shot back angrily. "As you so kindly pointed out. I'm not going anywhere!"

"They'll release you and then what?" Chase asked, temper rising.

"I'll manage."

"John, you're blind!"

"So what?" his lover cried. "That's not gonna change when I'm in Princeton, being coddled by you!"

Chase froze, whole body rigid, and he released a hiss of air. He stared at the blond sitting upright in the bed. His lover; blinded. Maybe permanently.

"I wasn't going to," he said coldly. "I just want to help, Pyre. But it looks like you don't need me." Chase felt anger turning into disappointment and then into pain.

"Robert, wait!" Pyre cried. "Wait, no! I didn't mean it like that!"

Chase turned back in time to see the other man trying to get out of bed, one arm reaching for him.

"Damn!" he cursed and grabbed the flailing arm, pushing Pyre back. "What the hell are you doing? Stay in bed!"

John was breathing hard, the body taut under Chase's hands, and then the lawyer wrapped an arm around Chase's middle, holding on.

"Sorry, Robert. Sorry. I'm not good with this. I never was. Sorry. I feel so stupid, so helpless."

The words were soft, whispered, and Chase held on tight.

"I just want you close," he told Pyre. "I just want to be able to be there if you need me. I can't go back to the hospital and pretend nothing happened. I can't stay here and risk losing everything I worked for. Getting you transferred was like a meeting in the middle."

John held him even more tightly, shaking. All of this hadn't really settled with him yet, just like it hadn't settled with Chase. He pressed a kiss to the short, blond hair, feeling John's tremors continue.

"I love you," Chase whispered. "I love you."

The next kiss brushed over the older man's lips and John answered it hesitantly.

"Please let me help," Chase begged softly.

"I don't want this," John moaned.

"I know. But it happened. You're alive, and that's all that counts, John. We can deal with this."

"I'm not sure I can."

He framed the pale face, gazing at the bandaged eyes. "You can. You are that strong. Just don't push me away."

John nodded jerkily and Chase smiled. His hands ran over his lover's back and shoulders, calming him. They could do this; he knew they could.

 

Three days later John was transferred to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, Chase never leaving his side.

 

* * *

Coming back to Princeton, Chase knew that both he and John needed to adjust to the new conditions. Not just that John was blind but also that they would share living space, because Chase was adamant that John would move in with him as soon as he was be released from the hospital. John had tried to argue, of course, but he had given in eventually. Chase's apartment was small, had only one bedroom, his guest room was used for storage, and he had moved whatever could get in John's way out of the way.

Pyre spent the first day in ophthalmology, getting a complete set of exams, and Chase talked to the head of the department for a while. For now there was nothing much anyone could do, but Dr. Grafton had given him a run down of their options.

Going back to work for House had been awkward at first. Cameron had been bursting with curiosity, Foreman had only given him a few looks, and House had been… his usual grumpy self.

"Are you okay?" Cameron asked as she caught up with him in the corridor, on the way to the labs.

"Yes."

"House said you took personal time."

"Yes," he repeated.

"Chase…"

"Listen, Cameron, I appreciate the concern, but… this is something no one can help with, okay? I'm fine."

And he pushed past her into the lab. She remained behind, looking like a chastised puppy, then walked on. Chase drew a deep breath and concentrated on his work.

* * *

The healer was a woman in her late forties, her chestnut hair already showing streaks of gray which she hadn't colored, and hazel eyes shone out of a sun-tanned face. She nodded at Wilson and Chase, then her eyes came to rest on House.

"I heard of you," she said in a mild voice. "Tim was impressed by you. Well, more of your repertoire of threats and cussing."

House smirked. "One of my many hidden talents."

"Not so hidden," Wilson murmured.

"Natalia Maidin," she introduced herself. "So where is my patient?"

"Chase, you're up," House only said.

Chase stepped forward, smiling at her. "Dr. Robert Chase. If you'll follow me?"

*

"You look surprised, if not confused," Natalia said as they walked down the corridor.

Chase gave her a quick look. "I… didn't expect you."

"You didn't expect me or anyone else who is a healer?" she asked pointedly.

He stopped at the elevator, fidgeting. "Any healer," Chase finally said quietly.

"Why?"

The elevator doors opened and there was luckily no one inside. Chase fidgeted a little under the healer's gaze.

"John isn't some kind of special paranormal," he told her, not looking at the woman.

"We don't choose our patients by specialties, Robert," Natalia told him gently. "We also don't react to threats, so Dr. House didn't make the decision for me either. Tim gave me the information Dr. House faxed him. I reviewed his condition and I can help him."

"But why him?" he demanded.

"Because I can help. Not every sickness or accident is a healer's case. Sometimes there is nothing we can do. Sometimes, like Dr. House's case, we can give a little relief even years later." Natalia stepped out of the elevator ahead of him and they continued to John's room. "We usually limit our help to paranormals and allies, that’s right, but paranormals rarely get seriously ill, and allies don't always turn to us. I chose John as my next patient because I can help, Robert. He is important as a human being." She smiled more. "He is important to you."

Chase blushed a little and quickly turned to open the door to the private room.

"Hey John, it's me," he announced himself. "I brought a visitor."

Pyre sat in his bed, the TV was running, and he seemed to be listening to the news. Now he turned his head, the eyes still hidden behind bandages.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"My name is Natalia, John," the healer introduced herself. "I'm a healer."

The shock and surprise flitting over the pale features had Chase smile a little. He walked over to the bed and briefly touched his lover's hand, sliding his hand up the forearm.

"Robert, I need to be alone with John for the examination," Natalia told him. "I'll call you when we're done."

He nodded and squeezed Pyre's hand, receiving a squeeze in return. Then Chase left the room, taking a deep breath.

* * *

"His chances are good," Natalia said after her prelim exam. "There has been severe damage to the right eye and I can already tell you that I can't heal it all."

Chase didn't move a muscle, but Wilson felt the despair rise inside him.

"His left eye hasn't received too much damage and with a little manipulation of the energy lines I can get it to heal properly, though like with the right eye, it won't be as perfect as before."

"But he can see again?" Chase asked.

"Yes. And with glasses you can correct the remaining myoptic problems."

Wilson smiled and saw Chase relax a little. "How long will it take?" the oncologist wanted to know.

"My work will be done in a few days. I suggest you release Mr. Pyre from the hospital. There isn't much your medical care can do for him here. I'd rather work in a for him familiar environment. I take it you live here?" she addressed Chase.

He nodded.

"Good. As for the healing that continues after I worked on the energy lines, it can take from days to weeks. There will be a gradual change in what he can see. You all have to be patient, especially John. Keep in mind that the trauma of before hasn't healed yet in his soul and even if he doesn't show it, his hopes are high."

"Thanks," Chase murmured, visible relieved.

Natalia smiled. "All part and parcel of my work, honey. Now, you get going and make his release happen. I need a coffee. Where's the cafeteria?"

Wilson accompanied the healer to the cafeteria, which was not as crowded now that normal lunch time was over. House had disappeared, muttering about boredom and clinic time, and Chase was working on Pyre's discharge.

* * *

The call had come from one of his North American contacts and it had shocked Kouga to the core. A bomb had gone off in the office of John Pyre. The wolf youkai had known Pyre since the day the lawyer had started working for Shikon Enterprises. He had been chosen because of several factors that worked in his favor. He was an ally, foremost. He was discrete. He was passionate. And he was damn good at what he did. Kouga had met with him several times before offering him Shikon Enterprises as a client. It had floored the young man, but he had taken them on and there had never been a reason to doubt him since.

Pyre didn't know who or what Shikon Enterprises involved. He didn't know a thing about the Japanese paranormals, and Kouga had never seen a reason to change that. John worked their cases, had access to fund money for nature projects, reserves and even animal clinics, and those years had never brought up the paranormal.

And he knew him only as Koshiro Akigawa, the name he used when interacting with humans.  
Now, sitting across from the other man, Kouga studied the bandaged features. There were fine lines of stress around the mouth, Pyre's whole body radiated tension, and the covered eyes didn't help.

"How are you?" Kouga asked.

Pyre smiled a little. "Out of the hospital, which is good. Everything else…"

Kouga's gaze went over to the second man in the room. Dr. Robert Chase. He knew from Kagome that this was the man she had replaced as a temp a few months back. And he was the man who John had chosen as a partner. According to Kagome, Chase was an ally, too. Either he knew from Wilson and House who Kouga was, or not. From the way he was looking at him, Chase wasn't in on it.

"We'll take care of everything else, John," the wolf demon now said calmly.

"W-what? What do you mean?"

"Financially."

Pyre froze. Chase blinked and stared at Kouga, unable to understand, just like his partner.

"Shikon Enterprises takes care of its employees, John," Kouga added.

"But I'm not one of your employees!" Pyre blurted. "I'm free lance."

"Yeah, well, I convinced my boss to add you to the social network. We take care of the financial side, pay you your regular fees…"

"But I'm not able to work for you!" Pyre protested.

"You did outstanding work for us in the past, John. And when you're healed, you will continue to do so."

"It's not even for certain I can see again, Koshiro," Pyre interrupted him, anger in his voice. "And honestly, I can't believe you'd just spend your money on some crippled lawyer because he did help you on a few cases."

Chase was quiet, but the hard words and the anger was affecting him.

Kouga smiled a little. He knew John to be a passionate and open man, with straight forward words if those were needed.

"You didn't just work a few cases," he said calmly. "You were crucial in several of our projects."

"Still no reason to play saint. What's going on, Koshiro?"

He was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly, eyes on Chase as he spoke. It was time for some honesty. "We chose you for a reason, John. One was your passion for nature, defending those who couldn't speak up for themselves. Another was the fact that you are an ally."

Chase stared at him, mouth opening, then he snapped it shut.

"What are you talking about?" Pyre asked, voice steady.

"We know your work as an ally. You are respected among the paranormals you are in contact with. It was my main reason to hire you, because you know secrets, you can keep secrets, and if you ever needed to know ours, I was sure they would be in good hands."

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said coolly.

Kouga smiled. "It would be a lot easier if you could see, but right now all I have is words and the eyes of your partner. Dr. Chase, did you ever talk to Dr. Wilson about what happened at the hospital while you were gone?"

"Nothing happened," Chase answered, voice just as level.

Good. Not immediately jumping at the bait. Kouga nodded.

"Dr. Higurashi Kagome is my wife, Dr. Chase. And I was there for the Zoe Chester case. A friend of mine if taking care of the girl, trying to help her. I know you and Dr. Wilson talked. I'm pretty sure he kept you up to date. I think he mentioned Japanese paranormals, that we call ourselves youkai. It's the Japanese word for demons."

Kouga knew he was gambling now, taking a risk, but he decided to drop the illusion he presented to the world. The moment those protective shields were down, Chase jumped up with a gasp.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

"Robert?"

Kouga met the wide eyes calmly, clearly aware that what Chase saw was nothing he had ever seen before. The pointed ears, the blue eyes with the slit pupil, and of course, the tail.

"My name is Kouga and I'm a wolf youkai. I was born about six hundred years ago in a land that today is called Japan. I shape-change, too," he explained calmly.

"You… that's you?" Chase stammered.

"Yes. In the flesh." Kouga rearranged the illusion again.

"Robert? What's going on?" John demanded, one hand reaching to the side where his lover was.

Chase grabbed his arms, squeezing it. "It's the truth, John. He's… not human."

Kouga waited for Chase to sit down again, the Australian clearly shocked, and then started to tell Pyre everything. About Shikon Enterprises, about himself, about Kagome, and about his friends.

* * *

As a doctor, Robert Chase knew all about PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder. He had read about it in books and had found articles in various journals, but he had never had someone close to him go through it. With John, recovery was progressing slowly, but to everyone's satisfaction. His eyes were healing, Natalia had applied her last session a week ago, and life was going on. The revelation about Shikon Enterprises, John's main client, had floored them both, but as allies they worked through that even better than normal human beings.

Kouga had stayed for a while longer, he had answered their questions, and he had reassured Pyre that financially he would be covered. Shikon didn't want to lose his expertise, and even if his eyes never regained their sight completely, they would remain his client.

"Wow," Chase had only said when the youkai had left. "That's… unexpected."

There had been a weak laugh from his lover. "That doesn't even begin to describe it."

Chase had met Wilson over a beer, and both men had more or less compared notes. John was still stunned that he had never even suspected something like this in all the years he had worked with a man called Koshiro Akigawa, but a lot of things made sense now. Shikon funded lots of environmental projects, gave money to parks, helped create new reserves or ran campaigns for nature awareness on a grand scale.

"These reserves and parks all over the world are very important to us," Kouga had told them, blue eyes serious. "It's a place to regenerate, to feel at home... to experience what civilization took away. My kind, the youkai and the hanyou, come from a time when civilization hadn't yet pushed us to the boundaries of this world. We lived among them, sometimes openly, sometimes hidden. Today we have to hide behind illusions, or if we can't or won't, we retreat to the farthest places, away from the curious eye.

The world is a large place, but smaller than you think. And we look for places where we can be what we are, where we have freedom now and then. A few lucky hanyou find human mates and friends who don't run scared. Mostly those 'allies' come from the native people of the land. They don't find it hard to accept the difference. Civilization calls us devils, demons and abominations; our allies rarely judge us."

"Why tell me now?" John had asked quietly.

"Because I thought it was time."

"Because I was injured?"

"Yes, maybe. I think of you as a trusted friend, John."

Chase knew it had floored his lover, just like it had floored him, but the words had given John a boost of self-confidence. Maybe that was what Kouga had intended. The wolf youkai had told him to call, whatever he needed, whenever, and not to worry.

Right now, Chase didn't worry about finances. He was too worried about John's rising anger and sudden bouts of depression.

Things were complicated in some areas, especially John getting around, but they were managing. At least Pyre insisted he was managing. It started a week after Natalia's departure. With nightmares, which Chase tried to help his lover through. Sleep disorders followed, and Chase suspected that John got about a third of the sleep he claimed he did. Unable to look into his lover's eyes made it hard for the intensivist to tell where the truth began and the lie ended.

Then the bandages came off. Grafton tested how receptive John was, and aside from dark and light, Pyre could distinguish nothing. More tests followed, then the advice to be more patient. The eyes were still adjusting and the scarring was minimal enough.

With the bandages no longer covering his eyes, John also pushed away all and every help. He refused psychological help, didn't want anyone to talk to, and Chase was getting more and more frustrated by the other man's refusal to even touch the topic of his eyes. They were healing and Natalia had again and again told them that this would be a matter of time, nothing else. The body had to heal. Nothing could quicken it.

And nothing could stop the growing stress John was under, which finally exploded in a harsh verbal fight between both men.

"I don't need therapy!" John yelled. "I'm fine! Can't you see? I'm fine!"

"You're not! John, someone tried to blow you up and you were severely injured!" Chase argued. "You need help!"

"I'm not a child! I can decide what I need, so don't go around telling me what I can't and can do!"

"John!"

"Stop it, Robert!" the lawyer screamed. "I'm not a baby! I'm not helpless! I don't need a sitter! I don't need you!"

He turned and nearly banged into the couch, but he caught himself, pushing angrily alongside the couch's back.

"No, you're not a baby!" Chase yelled. "You're an idiot! You're too proud to accept help and too hard-headed to see that this is eating you up alive!"

"Well, then I'm in good hands, right Dr. Chase? You have all the great answers!" John snapped, rounding on him. "But I'm blind! Nothing can change it! Nothing can change that I lost my office, my job, my work, everything!"

"That's not true!"

"You think a blind lawyer can win a case? Well, maybe with a few pity points!" was the acid reply.

"You're not blind!" Chase told him. "Natalia…"

"Stop it, Robert! Stop with the hope part!" John had reached the wall and his hands pushed hard against it. "Nothing is for certain. She said she'll aide my body in recovering, but even she can't do miracles!"

Chase approached the other man. "John, please," he begged. "This isn't the end."

"It isn't for you! You can go on and find someone else! You have your job! You're not blind!"

The Australian grabbed one flailing arm and pinned the other man against the wall. "Find someone else?" he repeated, voice shaking. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Let go of me!" Pyre struggled.

"What the fuck is going on in that head of yours, John? I'm not leaving you!"

"Let go!"

And he tore himself lose, only to stumble over the carpet. Chase grabbed him, almost going down with him, and they ended up half sitting, half leaning. Pyre was still struggling, his movements jerky, and he made panicky little sounds.

"John," Chase insisted. "Calm down. It's okay. I'm here. I'm not leaving."

He kept repeating the words and the struggles decreased, then finally Pyre slumped. There was a wetness splashing on his hand and Chase was stunned to realize that his lover was actually crying.

* * *

House was a very sharp observer. When it came to human nature he not only knew that everybody lied, but also that everybody hid what he really felt. With Chase, the hiding was no longer working. His Australian junior was running himself ragged and it had nothing to do with their latest case, or the fact that he continued to work NICU whenever there was a breather in Diagnostics.

He watched the interaction between Chase and Pyre when the lawyer came in for his checks, and he witnessed how frustrated the older man was that after the bandages had been removed, he still couldn't see very much.

Wilson kept a close eye on Chase, they actually talked quite often, and through his lover House knew that while Natalia's work was taking root, things were going slow. Too slow for a man who needed his eyes work and who was growing more and more frustrated every day things didn't change. Chase wasn't equipped to handle this.

Actually, few people were.

House briefly wondered how his lover had been able to stand him being a bastard for twelve years, but shoved that thought aside quickly. He hovered outside Grafton's department until the nurse had left the treatment room, then pushed inside.

Pyre became aware of him, probably as a black shadow, and tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

"It's me," House only said.

"Dr. House?"

"Good. Voice recognition is working."

House stared hard at the blond man. John Pyre might not be completely blind, but he had decided to hide his damaged eyes behind sunglasses. Since the bandages had been removed Grafton was satisfied with the ongoing healing process. He was actually surprised how well Pyre was seeing.

"So, tore Chase a new one already or hasn't he yet overdone the caring?" he asked.

Pyre smiled slightly. "We had our discussions."

"Lovers' spat. Give him some sexual relief and things will get better."

"It's not all about sex, Dr. House."

House raised his brows. "It isn't. Damn. Had it wrong all those years." He picked up the chart and read over the notes. "Looking good."

"I couldn't tell."

"Sense of humor is coming back, good."

"That's not humor. It's acceptance."

House came closer, making sure that the little Pyre could see involved him. "You're not accepting, Pyre. You're fighting. Fighting is good. Acceptance means death."

"Speaking from experience." It wasn't a question.

House thumped the cane against the floor. "Right you are. Compare the leg to not being able to see. I can see the parallels."

"Unlike you, this is a disability that will change my life."

"And it hasn't changed mine? You really do know me well," House said sarcastically.

"You can still work your job."

"Learn Braille. Or get yourself an assistant."

"It's not that easy."

"Yeah, I can see your acceptance," House growled. "All down there in the gutter with you and your depressed self. Depression doesn't help, Johnny boy. Depression only gets you down."

Pyre was tense and House smiled wryly.

"You want some pick-me-uppers? Psych medication is so yummy. And then you can go and sleep off the drugs, wake up from dreamless sleep, and pop the next pills. You want to spend the rest of your life on Prozac?"

"That from the man who was addicted to Vicodin."

"Ohhh, I see Chase is a tattle-tale. And I had a pain problem, Pyre. You have a pain management problem."

"I'm not in pain!"

House was now right in the man's face and poked him in the chest. "Not physical pain. Your head is about to explode from everything that's going on in that brain of yours. You're suffering from PTSD."

"I'm fine!"

Pyre pushed him away, but House didn't budge. "Recovery from PTSD is an ongoing, daily, gradual process. It doesn't happen through sudden insight or 'cure'," he said harshly. "Healing doesn't mean that you will forget his experiences or have no emotional pain when remembering them."

"I'm not…"

"You are, Pyre, you are!" House told him ruthlessly. "And you know what? Some level of continuing reaction to memories is normal and reflects a normal body and mind! Recovery can lead to fewer reactions and reactions that are less intense. You will be able to cope – if you accept help."

"Look who's talking!" John spat. "When did you get help?"

House studied the agitated man. "The moment I let James Wilson back into my life," he said quietly. "Because survivors of any kind of trauma need support, if they want it or not."

Pyre swallowed, looking down. Whatever he could see, House didn't care.

"The support person you choose has to know your needs," House added as he stepped back. "You have to trust him. You have to be able to talk to him. And he has to be able to survive your pain, your fury and you biting into him."

And with that he left the treatment room, limping toward the elevator. It came as no great surprise that the moment he stepped out of it on the fourth floor, Wilson fell in step beside him. They made their way to the oncologist's office. The door had just closed when House pushed him against it, claiming his mouth in a kiss. Wilson didn't protest, simply pulled him close by grabbing his open shirt.

The kiss was long and slow, not leading to a sexual encounter, and finally House leaned against the other man, exhaling slowly.

"Greg?" Wilson murmured after a moment.

"No talking," House growled, silencing that mouth with another kiss.

His lover responded and House didn't give a damn what Wilson sensed from him. Right now it was good to feel this, to feel this man with him, kissing and being kissed.

Brown eyes displayed more than he wanted to read in them and he dared Wilson to speak, but the other man silent. Wilson wrapped a hand around House's neck, cupping his head, and pulled him into a new kiss, this one almost chaste.

They finally broke apart after an indefinite amount of time and House straightened. Wilson was still silent, watching him. House opened the door and simply walked out, not looking back, but part of him was aware of the eyes following him until the door snapped shut.

A few more hours in the clinic and he could leave.

His bike was already calling his name.

* * *

That evening, Wilson only shot him a brief look, then left House alone. The Diagnostic had spent his time playing a few pieces on the piano, getting his mind to calm down and think rationally again. Talking to Pyre had opened a few old wounds that were still painful.

Hands came to rest on his shoulders, massaging them gently, and Wilson leaned down. "Greg?" he murmured into one ear.

He stopped playing with a sigh and leaned into the firm body behind him. "Stop reading me," he groused.

"Am not. I've known you a lot longer than I was ever able to read you. Something hit you hard."

"And you can leave the pseudo-psychobabble at home, too. I'm not gonna spill my soul to you."

Wilson smiled, hands still on House's shoulders. The cast had come off a few days ago and physical therapy was helping with regaining the strength and agility in the injured wrist. Wilson was doing fine and he would be back to his normal, strong self soon.

"Okay."

And then he was gone. House shook his head and glanced over his shoulder, smirking as he watched the younger man return to the couch area.

He played some more, fingers just moving across the black and white keys. Finally he stopped and rose, limping over to where Wilson was slouched in a very inviting manner.

Brown eyes danced as they met blue ones.

House stepped between the spread legs and Wilson's hands came up to touch his thighs, caressing over them, front, sides, back, then went up to undo the button. Their eyes were still on each other and then the zipper was lowered. Wilson sat up slowly, hands stroking over the briefs, then he began to push the jeans off the narrow hips.

House didn't stop him.

He was still looking.

And the connection only broke when Wilson freed him of the last barrier and took the growing hardness into his mouth.

House's eyes closed and he rested a gentle hand on the chestnut head, hips twitching. His breathing quickened as his lover skillfully started to slide his lips and tongue over his arousal. He threw his head back, staring at the ceiling, hips pumping, and he just… felt. He felt the wet heat, the hands trailing over his thighs, across the ugly scarring on his right thigh, over the ridges and bumps. He felt fingers tease and caress and fondle and squeeze. He felt the suction and the heady sensation of something building up inside him that soon would go past the point of no return.

"Jimmy," he breathed.

It was a plea, a warning, a need, and Wilson understood it without asking.

House groaned deeply as he came, shuddering, and his knees buckled a little. Wilson was suddenly there, right in front of him, eyes dilated and impossibly black. His hair looked mussed from where House's hands had undone the nicely combed perfection.

Their lips met in a hungry, sloppy kiss, and House felt his sensitive, deflating erection rub against denim. He shuddered, groaning again. There was a definite bulge there, too. He slid a hand over it, making Wilson shudder in turn. House grinned.

Time to repay the favor.

* * *

Chase had to smile as his lover walked into their shared home after his latest session with Dr. Walker, his counselor. It had been months now. Months of healing, of fighting, of helping and soothing, and of lashing out and inadvertently hurting the other. And months of fighting and slowly coming to terms with what happened, of nights spent talking or snuggling into each other’s arms, sometimes crying involved on both sides. When Chase had felt a hesitant hand slide under his shirt for the first time after the bombing he could have cried with joy, and when John had accepted his touch in return he actually had. It was a definite sign that things had gotten better and John was slowly accepting his life had been forever altered. His eyes had healed, but there was permanent damage, as Natalia had predicted. It showed in one very prominent new feature – a pair of glasses.

John grimaced a little at Chase's closer inspection, but the Australian didn't give him a chance. He greeted him with a kiss, murmuring, "Sexy."

There were no visible scars around the eyes, nor was there any scarring anywhere on Pyre's body. All wounds had healed and the remaining damage was invisible. John's right eye was the worst off. Without the glasses he couldn't see anything clearly, while the left eye was a lot better. Then there was the nocturnal myopia, which had sat most heavily on the lawyer's mind. He could no longer drive after dark or when the light was growing less.

John answered the kiss and slipped his arms around Chase's waist, pulling him close. The kiss was growing longer, turning into smaller ones, both men enjoying the contact. Chase pushed his lover against the wall and smirked a little at the dazed expression in the gray eyes – eyes that held a light instead of a blind gaze. John leaned forward and caught his lips once more, and Chase was only too happy to let him.

 

They ended up, still kissing, on the couch and Chase very much enjoyed the tender contact. John was in a cuddly mood and sought closeness, either by sliding a hand under Chase's shirt or nuzzling a path down his lover's neck. The Australian let his hand caress the broad back, humming softly as Pyre sucked at a tender spot.

"Janet called," the lawyer murmured after a while.

His eyes were closed, his face was half hidden in Chase's chest, and his hand was still resting comfortably underneath the black t-shirt, on bare skin.

"She asked when I come back."

Chase played with the dark blond strands. "When will you?"

"I don't know." John sighed softly and Chase let his fingers dance over the strong neck. "I'm not sure I can go back there."

"Then rent another office."

"I could work from here."

That had Chase stop. "What?"

Pyre was quiet. "If you want…" he added.

"I'd want to have you here, John, but you have a job in New York!"

"I have a job wherever I live, Robert. My main client is a multi-national company. They don't care where I live."

"Running away won't help dealing with it, John," was the soft reply.

"I know. I know all of it. I talked to a shrink, remember?"

"Yeah, after House kicked your butt."

"He's good at that." John caressed the flat stomach.

They fell silent again. Finally Chase pressed a kiss to the dark blond head.

"It's your decision. I'll support it, John. I love you. If you want to move here, I won't argue. I'd love to have you here."

Pyre was silent. Finally he said, "It might not be easy, Robert."

"You think the past months were easy?" the younger man teased.

"That's not what I meant. Living together is… a big step."

"You made it before."

"Yes."

"So what's the difference between living with Matt and living with me?"

The lawyer turned to look at him, face serious. "Both are commitments."

"And I want you here."

"We'd need a bigger place," John said softly.

"I'll go hunting, no problem."

"You really are determined."

"Yeah," Chase said quietly. "Want to take the gamble?"

* * *

House made a soft humming noise. It had nothing to do with his rather comfortable position. Back supported by couch cushions, socked feet on Wilson's thighs, he had been reading a French journal on renal diseases – in French. Wilson was watching a movie that had held House's attention for all ten seconds, then he had started to read. It was a compromise on his part, and a hint as to how interesting the journal was. He had been lost in the articles for over one hour.

Wilson glanced at him, not commenting, then his eyes were back on the movie.

"Think he'll move in?"

The question had Wilson turn toward him once more. "Who?"

"Lover boy."

"John?"

House smirked at him over the journal. "First name basis, Jimmy?"

"You've got nothing to worry about," Wilson replied playfully, patting his good thigh.

"I never worry."

"Right."

"And I don't do jealous."

"Of course not."

House's brows dipped. "Is that sarcasm?"

"Is that a real question?" Wilson shot back.

"Huh." House went back to reading, enjoying the light caress of his jeans-clad shins.

"Why shouldn't they?" Wilson suddenly asked a minute later.

"Cause the little wombat's not fully fledged yet."

"This isn't about fledging, Greg. I think it's about having your own nest."

"Now you're taking the analogies a little too far," House criticized, looking at him again.

"You started it with the birds."

"What's next? Bees? And wombat's don't have wings."

Wilson kept on caressing. "No, they're marsupials."

"Been watching the Discovery Channel again, hm?" House turned a page in the journal. "So what do wombats do?"

"Find a mate?"

He let the journal drop onto his stomach, smirking more. "Mating season again? I nearly missed it."

Wilson began to knead a foot and House made a soft sound of pleasure.

"Unfair," he groaned. "Distraction through foot fetish."

Wilson chuckled. "It's working."

"Of course it is," was the contented grumble. "Doesn't deter me completely, though."

"Never thought it would."

"So Chase is growing up and making his home with a… mate?" House thought out loud, a slant of sarcasm to it.

"Many do. Some sooner than others."

"Ohhh, I know that one!" House crooned. "It's called a hint! But you can't mean us, right, Jimmy? Because I'm sure I was never wooed."

Wilson gave him the Look and House grinned.

"I was seduced," he went on with a purr. "Really, really well, I have to say. By a ladies man. Who needs corrective lenses, I guess. Course I don't have boobs at all."

"Shut up, House," the oncologist muttered, but there was no malice in his words. "And this isn't about us. It's about Chase."

"Who's making a decision." House pushed himself up and his feet slid off the comfortable lap. "It's something only he can make anyway. You want to run interference?"

"No. Actually I think it's time."

"Papa Jimmy!" House teased.

"Grow up." He slapped him lightly against one shin.

"Two damaged people moving in together. Sound familiar?"

Wilson sighed and shook his head, refusing to fall for the bait. House grinned and with a deft movement that belied a missing muscle in his thigh he was suddenly pushing his lover back. Wilson eeeped, then his lips were caught in a determined kiss.

"Familiar," House purred as he let up on the kiss. "But they'll never top us. Speaking of which…" Brows waggled suggestively.

Wilson chuckled. "Bad, really bad, Greg."

"Hm, but it's working."

A hand reached between them, squeezing him gently. Wilson's eyes grew darker with desire.

"Oh yeah," House whispered, then bent down for another kiss.


End file.
